Ichor
by LeviathanRising
Summary: Ichor, the blood of gods, and what is Elsa, if not a goddess? Yet, it is not until decades after her death, when a generation of young lives is extinguished in the battlefields and trenches of 20th century Europe, that the true scope of her power is finally seen.


"It's…multiplying."

"What are yo-"

"It's her majesty's blood."

"…What? Why do you have the queen's-"

"Don't worry, she's fine. She cut herself on one of those old suits of armor. I just collected my sample from there while the Princess fawned over her 'wound'."

"…You are a very strange man, Charles."

Charles nods absentmindedly, his eyes wide and focused on the small dinner plate resting on the table before him, evidently stolen from the castle's dining room. His musket leans against the wall on the far side of the room, his saber resting on the floor next to it.

"Well, come see then, Anders. It's quite fascinating."

Anders cautiously sets his own firearm down next to Charles' and makes his way to the other soldier, bending over to get a good look at his 'sample'.

The small puddle of liquid shimmering in the plate is not like any blood that would run in a normal human's veins, instead it is a light, icy blue, not unlike the eyes of the queen .

"That…is not blood."

"No, no, it was red when I collected it, but in about ten minutes it shifted to this shade."

Charles had been right, the liquid was slowly yet surely multiplying. It seemed as if soon it would fill the entire plate.

"See, I applied a small fire to the blood, and it began to spread almost immediately. It was doing so far quicker before you came in. Now, it seems to have slowed. I suppose it will stop shortly."

"…You ever think perhaps you would make a better scholar than a soldier?"

Charles shakes his head vigorously, the ornate shako of the palace guard rattling on his tall, thin head.

"No, no. I don't have the patience for all those books, this is just a hobby."

"So this is Arendelle's army, yes? We spend our time sitting around, examining the magical, literally blue blood of our beloved monarch. Perhaps the Norwegians are right to call us strange."

The blood is hardening now, more of a thick sludge dotted with chunks of floating ice than the liquid it was a moment ago.

"Here, watch this, before it freezes completely."

Charles takes on old writing quill from the table, dipping its end into the blood. When he retrieves it, the tip of has become encrusted in a thick shell of ice. The weight quickly becomes too much, and the quill snaps in half.

"Would make a potent weapon, don't you think?"

"You don't think the queen will be upset that you…uh…stole her blood?"

"Not when she considers its military applications. Imagine if we could turn it into a vapor…it could waft across a battlefield and-"

"I…okay."

* * *

_Bang!_

With the sound of a gunshot, and the detonation of a crude bomb, the world changed forever. Archduke Franz Ferdinand was dead, along with his wife, and the powder keg of nationalist tension that was early 20th century Europe exploded, launching the nations into the most destructive war yet suffered by mankind.

The Coronan led German Empire surged towards the French border, aiming to quickly knock Paris out of the newborn war, and violating Belgium's neutrality in doing so. They failed.

"A surprise, for our enemies."

The heavy canisters are quite foreboding, as Pickelhaube wearing German soldiers lug them into position.

"But chemical weapons are banned by the Hag-"

"These aren't chemical weapons."

"Then what?"

"A gift from the Queen of Arendelle."

"What? There is no Arendelle anymore, much less a queen. And Norway, if that's who you mean, is neutral, as far as I know."

"Well, it's an old gift. Older than any man here, I'd wager. Corona has been waiting quite a few years to make use of it. The Kaiser himself has ordered their use."

"So, what are they?"

"I like to call it Ichor", says the Sergeant, adjusting his own spiked helmet, grinning wickedly.

"Ichor?"

"Yes", he says, as the sound of machine gun fire and exploding shells echoes in the distance, underscored by the screams of dying men. "Ichor, the blood of the gods. Quite a fitting name, don't you think? If there was ever a living god amongst men, it was Queen Elsa II of Arendelle."

"You mean…We are literally going to shoot blood at our enemies? Has Europe gone mad?"

A shell lands too close to the two men for comfort, their faces illuminated by its deadly flash, the smell of charred flesh wafting across the battlefield.

"I'd say the whole world's gone mad, Corporal."

"If a woman's blood isn't chemical, than what would you call it?"

"I don't know. Magical?"

"Magic isn't chemical?"

"No, it's magic."

"That doesn't eve-"

"Back! Back! Every man back!"

All but those manning the canisters obey this order, retreating further into their trenches, crouching behind whatever cover can be found.

_Fshhhhh!_

The canisters are opened, and a blue-white mist floats across no-man's-land, like the ghostly fingers of some wraith, reaching out for the souls of Englishman and Frenchman alike.

The shout from enemy lines can be heard clearly across hundreds of yards of war-torn earth.

"Gas! It's gas!"

The eerie mist finds its target, it envelopes the soldiers of the Triple Entente, freezing their faces into masks of horror and pain, stiffening their bodies with thick layers of frost, encasing them in shells of ice.

Men are frozen across miles of land, rifles still raised, their hands glued to machine guns, prayer beads still clasped in their chill, dead hands. They fall to the ground and shatter, or are finished by the eager German troops that rush out of their own trenches, past the now unprotected enemy lines, their progress unhindered.

The day is won for the Central Powers, anything the opposing side might bring against them cannot hope to match the blood of the gods.

All across Europe and even into the Middle East, the devastating weapon is employed to great effect.

The _SMS Rapunzel_ sinks the _HMS Lion_ and the _Indefatigable_ off of the British coast, using shells filled with Ichor.

Shipments are sent from Berlin to the Ottomans, and the Austro-Hungarians.

Victory is not certain, by any means, but this is a great step towards an ending of the war in the favor of Germany and her allies.

Rapunzel's heir sits confident on his throne.

"Thank God for Queen Elsa."


End file.
